Erik Visits Charles
by cherik-mcbender
Summary: After Cuba, Erik and Charles haven't spoken. Erik doesn't know what happened after he left, and he needs to find out. So he sneaks into Charles' mansion in the dead of night.
1. Chapter 1

**Prompt: **_Hey, I know this is old stuff but I keep thinking about this thing: Erik comes to the school in a secret nightly visit for the first time after the Cuba-departure and finds Charles in bed, paralysed. What happens?_

It had been too long since Erik had seen Charles. That's why he wanted to go back – why he had to go back. It had been too long since he'd seen his face, since he'd held him….Every night, nightmares plagued Erik. Nightmares filled with the echoing of thegunshot, the look of terror and pain plastered on Charles' face, the tears trailing out of his eyes, and the guilt, hatred, and pain that had filled every atom of Erik's body. And he kept wondering – was Charles having nightmares too? That's why he had to go back. Why he had to see him.

The school was quiet. Erik had snuck in through a window, and now the only movement was the slight ruffling of the curtain as the breeze swept in. He gestured behind him, and the window closed. Though it had been months since he had been in the school, he knew his way around just as well as he had before…before the beach.

He didn't know what had happened after. Despite all the digging he could do, the school had been locked down. Dark. The bullet hadn't given Charles any fatal injuries. He was confident of that. And Erik had taken the bullet out so fast…nothing could be wrong with Charles, right? He ought to have healed by now.

Charles' room was the third door on the left. Erik froze. The door was closed. He remembered countless nights when he was staying at the school, during which he would rise from his bed, sleepless, and creep down to Charles' room. Stare at the door, which was always open just a crack. Always welcoming. Sometimes, he got up the courage to go in. Charles would wake up, stare at him through bleary eyes, and then open his arms – always ready to talk, to comfort. And once, there had been a kiss. That night replayed over and over in Erik's head. He used to hope that he and Charles could be together. But that kiss had happened right before the beach. Now, everything was different.

He flicked his hand carefully at the doorknob. Silently, the lock shifted, and the door swung open slowly.

The first thing he saw was the bed. It was empty, the sheets tangled. Next, he saw the floor – covered in books, journals, tissues, crumpled and torn sheets of paper. Then he saw the wheelchair. It was positioned right by the window, facing away from him. And finally, he saw Charles. Sitting in the wheelchair, his hair overgrown and his chin hidden by a shaggy beard. His fingers running ceaselessly over his face. The entire top half of his body shaking, quivering – and his legs eerily still.

Erik couldn't breathe. He couldn't swallow the dry, cold lump in his throat. His ears were filled with Charles' screams and his own heartbeat. This was his fault. It was all his fault.

He closed the door silently and left the way he had come. There was nothing he could do.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik came back every night after that one. And every night, it was the same. He crept in through the window –eventually, he stopped locking it behind him, and no one even noticed it wasunlocked. He walked down the hallway. He noiselessly stepped into Charles' room. And every night, Charles was awake, staring out the window, running his hand over his face. And every night, Erik left without a word. Charles, so focused on the moonlight and the pain that filled every fiber of his being, never even knew he was there.

Then, one night, it was snowing. Erik didn't know why that did it for him, but it did. The snow was coating everything in sight, and Erik lifted the metal in his suit and flew to the window so that he wouldn't make tracks in the snow. The snow had started earlier that evening as a soft sprinkle, but soon it was pelting down faster than it had in years. And when he got inside, he paused. He looked back out the window and watched the snow silently muffle everything, choking the fields and muting the sky. Maybe it was the memory of Charles running through the snow last year, his face pink and his eyelashes tipped with snowflakes. Maybe it was the memory of him coming inside and making the homemade hot chocolate that he had learned how to make himself as a child, since his mother was never around, and then showing his secret recipe to Erik. Maybe it was the memory of the power going out, and Charles lighting candle after candle until their bedroom glowed softly. Maybe it was the memory of his lips against Erik's.

But whatever it was, Erik couldn't bear it any longer. After unlocking Charles' door and stepping inside, he said, "Charles?"

Charles jumped and removed his shaking fingers from over his eyes. He didn't turn his head. "Erik."

Erik swallowed the lump in his throat and moved further into the room, shutting the door behind him. "I'm sorry, Charles."

Charles' fingers were twisted together so tightly that they were almost as white as the snow that lined his window. Slowly – more slowly than Erik could bear – he moved his head so he was facing Erik. His face was ashen, his hair greasy, his eyes so exhausted that they had turned gray. "What are you doing here?" he croaked. "I don't want you here."

Erik's mind raced. His memories flashed between Charles' lips and the gunshot, the feel of their skin touching and the blood slowly pooling underneath Charles, turning the sand brown. "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "What…is there anything…_anything_ I can do?"

Charles tightened his jaw. "What do you think this is? An illness? A lapse? Erik, this is my life now. This is what you've done to me."

Erik shook his head. "I – I know – I understand – I wish that I could do something – I wish – "

And suddenly, Charles was screaming. "You'll _NEVER UNDERSTAND_," he shouted.

Erik took a step back, his hand reaching for the door. Then he hesitated and lowered it. He moved forward. "Then help me. Help me understand." He knelt next to the wheelchair and laid his hand on Charles'.

Charles flinched violently and ripped his hands out from Erik's touch. "Don't touch me," he whispered.

Erik lifted his hands into the air. "I'm sorry," he said again. "Charles. Show me. Show me what it's like. Maybe I can understand."

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the tears that were tracing shining paths down his cheeks. And before he knew it, Erik had taken his spot, watching the moon and the snow through Charles' eyes.

Time raced backwards, and then he was in a hospital bed, light seeping in through a closed curtain and machines bleeping drearily next to him. He had just woken up, and Hank was next to him, in a deep discussion with a woman who had a stethoscope draped around her neck and a clipboard clutched in her hands. Hank looked over at Charles. "Oh my god, he's awake." The doctor began to adjust levers and scribble in her notes, and Hank raced to Charles' side, touching his hand to Charles' arm. "Professor…Professor, do you remember what happened?"

Erik watched himself nod – his throat was too dry to speak.

"Professor…the gunshot…it hit your spine."

Erik felt his chin lift as he looked at Hank through bleary eyes. _My spine_. He knew what that meant. Years of schooling – how could he not?

"Professor, I'm so sorry. The doctor was telling me…you've been…um, you've been paralyzed. From the waist down." Hank's fingers squeezed Charles' arm, and Erik winced as pain flooded the tender area.

The doctor stepped up behind Hank. "Your friend is right. I'm so sorry, Mr. Xavier. We did everything we could."

Suddenly, the world collapsed in on itself, and Erik wasn't in the hospital anymore – he was sitting in a wheelchair with Hank pushing him along as they approached the X-Mansion. Frustration flooded every inch of him as he opened his mouth and, infuriated by the architectural flaw that had never bothered him before, muttered, "How am I supposed to get in?"

Then he was alone in Charles' bedroom. Erik stared through Charles' eyes as he looked longingly at the bed, the sheets tucked in tightly, and then down at his useless legs. He threw his arms down on the bed and grasped at the sheets, his fingers sliding down them as he tried to pull himself into the comfort of his own bed. But his legs were heavier than he ever remembered, and he was sliding too fast. Then he was on the floor, staring at the paneled wood, red-hot anger coursing through him and making his eyes fill with tears, too enraged and embarrassed to call for help. He spent the night shivering on the floor, and Erik was awake inside the memory for every moment of the long night.

After that, Charles barely slept, and Erik watched as the world began to blur around him, losing color as his body and mind began to lose feeling. And it was better that way. With no color, there was no crimson blood. With no feeling, there was no pain.

Erik gasped as Charles threw him violently back into his own world, falling to the floor as he gradually regained feeling in his legs.

"_That's_ what it's like, you fool," Charles hissed. "Now get out of my house, or so help me, I will go inside your mind make you live like every single day."

Erik stood up on shaking legs. Slowly – ever so slowly – he bent down and kissed Charles on the cheek. Then he walked to do the door. His hand on the doorknob, he whispered, one last time, "I am _so_ sorry, Charles." And then he opened the door and left the way he had come.


End file.
